Classic Poem

Reading Genji Monogatari

Who is this who took up a red-lacquered brush to depict life,
and has for a thousand years intoxicated the reader's heart?
The analyzer of all these subtle things proves to be a woman, yes,
naturally different in love of elegance from a man.
In spring rain cutting wicks, evaluating a hundred flowers—
his yearning for incense, pity for jewels, began with this.
Across the Milky Way, in evening, magpies span a bridge;
letter sent at daybreak by the blue bird, the messenger.
Moonflower by an ordinary fence, the night, the loss;
Cicada Shell, her dress, the light, half a husk.
Summer insects, burning, throw themselves into a flame;
spring butterflies madly dance on the wing enamored of a flower.
A cat with no manners flips aside a pale-blue blind,
but the lunar resident remains obscure in the palatial depths.
After many clouds are befriended, rains caressed, he is torn,
quietly shedding tears into cold ash, in feeble candlelight.
These fifty-four books and millions of words
are in the end all about that one sentiment: love.

In love there are joys, pleasures, there are sorrows, hurts;
above all, love is to be noted when it is requited.
Do not blame her that things become excessive through the tale:
she simply wanted to explain all that she knew of love.
With a lamp lit by my small window, night quiet and still,
I, too, remain intent on puzzling things out in depth.EnglishEma Saiko